I keep thinking about this beautiful girl from the mental hospital. Her name was Carion, and she didn't exist.
She had lived her entire life without a social security number, no blood type or birth certificate to define her
and the walls of Calhoun couldn't confine her because she would
Carry On - that's how I spelled it in my head.
I know her name was only one 'r' from being the word for dead animals, but it never registered for me.
She was no corpse for vultures or hounds, but they stalked her anyway,
her demons were hyenas lurking in shadows but her
round eyes were bright and she told me I was pretty and that, later, she'd flirt with me if it weren't against the rules.
I wanted to flirt with her, too. Make that brown bark flesh all flushed with a blush from the way we whispered sweet nothings with voices all hushed.
Oh, Carry-On.
Those blue hospital gowns wrapped around you, on that dark skin like the way a robins-egg hue clashed with the branches of a nest.
I remember how we sat with the same pain in our chests.
I hope she's ok.
I hope she's still carrying on in the same way she did in that horrible place.